Edible, Not
by Runt the Brave
Summary: A fluffy oneshot inspired by May's ability to use eggs as a weapon. Pre-series Philinda.


_(I make really strange decisions on early-morning sugar-highs. I needed fluff after my last foray of fanfic writing)_

_A ridiculously fluffy Philinda one-shot examining May's ability to use eggs as a weapon._

_Assumes an established (but not marital) relationship during the pre-Bahrain era._

Edible, Not

Somehow, she'd found the perfect man.

The only partially awake martial arts master inhaled the fresh and savory scents of an in-process breakfast. She knew if she refused to move long enough that he'd just bring her the food, and that he'd love it too: always begging for her to let him take better care of her. The rich, aromatic smell of her favorite lotus tea joined the eggs and smoky sausages (he'd make her jasmine tea later, but that was always her after workout indulgence).

To move, or not to move… She blinked the last remnants of sleep from her eyes and slid out of the deliciously warm bed coverings.

He owned the entire house in the DC suburb, but rented most of it out, keeping the little three room, second floor apartment for when he (usually they) were in town. She scanned the floor, but he'd already cleaned up, straightening all the scattered clothes from the night before. The perfectly organized bedroom would mean she got to raid his closet and choose her favorite.

Light on her bare feet, she padded over to his wardrobe. Even if most of his official wardrobe was on scattered across the bases he frequented, there were at least five complete suits against the left wall of the little stand-up wardrobe (they really did make him look fantastic). Then came his astonishing display of dress shirts until the very right wall were the faded jeans and old t-shirts he probably hadn't worn in six or seven years. Affixed to the hanger of a pale purple button down was a little note in Chinese: 请.

Probably the only character he actually knew how to write. Certainly the only character he ever used around her. All too happy to oblige, she pulled the shirt off the hanger and slipped into it. Oh, she absolutely loved the way his shirts hung off her. They were weren't too large or too small, always soft, and smelled exactly like him (she knew they lived in a whole host of clichés, but the clichés were too perfect for her to care). She did up a few of the buttons, not particularly caring if it was the right buttons in the right holes. It half annoyed him half endeared her to him: either way, it was pure tradition. She headed out of the bedroom, her feet landing on the floor more solidly than normally.

His back was toward her as he busied over their breakfast. The little kitchenette and dining room were far more open and well lit than the bedroom. He was in jeans and a t-shirt, and oh, she loved it. As good as he looked in all the suits she absolutely loved being the only one to see him more casually. It only took her a few steps to reach him. She curled her fingers around one of his forearms and laid her head on his shoulder. The whole aroma of morning and breakfast was infused within him.

"Sleepyhead." He dropped a kiss in her hair and returned his focus to their breakfast: bacon and eggs, or so it seemed. "You look fantastic in that shirt."

She didn't look up at him, because she knew he's wearing that ever so insufferable smirk. More words were forming in him when an ear piercing shriek shattered the morning peace. The scream was from downstairs, and she had enough experience to know that this particular shriek was one of terror. In a few quick strides, she crossed the kitchenette. The table was in her way, but it was a quick enough to leap up, glide over it, and land on the other side. He's on her heals, but that as she shot through the door to his apartment and down the shared stairs, it's not like that's a particular presence.

The scream echoed again, and it was definitely a feminine scream. The only female tenant lived right below them, and sure enough, the door to her apartment was splintered from forced entry. She slowed her descent at the door and peered around it. The tenant, she has no idea of her name even though they were at one point introduced (all she knew was that the woman worked as some aid to some high-up government official), cowered in a corner. One assailant has a gun to her head. Another tossed a role of duct tape aside and joined a third in an obvious search of the place. Coordinated search, rushed without trashing the place. Armed and professionals. Exactly the sort of people who'd be successful if they hadn't decided to rob the building while two SHIELD agents were making breakfast right above them.

She really didn't approve of breakfast plans being delayed. One of the robbers strayed too close to the cracked door, and she pounced. She slammed through the door, smashed her flattened hand into his neck, and spun behind him. He reeled but didn't fall. Good. That kept him between the shooter and her. The professionals are yelling, trying to coordinate around her (the fools). This apartment had nearly the same layout of the one right above it, and that worked out well for her. She latched on to the back of the first guy's body armor and yanked him backwards and down. She crouched. He slammed into the kitchen table.

The wood shattered and so did at least a few of the bones in his skull. But the odds were even more against her now, because they're good enough to have one gun trained on her and another on the woman. "You move," said the first assailant, "and she dies."

Did they think she was a rookie? They needed her, or perhaps more importantly, their boss needed the woman alive for whatever reason. Otherwise, she'd be crossed off already.

She slowly reached her hands into the air, spread apart. She kept her head down. And then there was her lover, standing beside the first assailant as if he belonged there. She hadn't even noticed him, and oh of course. Back doors. He winked at her. They moved. Her worry was the third man, who'd stayed in the vague no-mans-land with his gun fixed on her. She vaulted up and backwards as he opened fire. The table was thankfully narrow, and she landed behind it in a perfect crouch. He kept coming, but he'd empty his mag in three… She dodged backward, luring him in. Kitchens were great places for battles, after all. Two…

He took the bait and drew too close to the refrigerator. One… She smashed open the refrigerator door. It sank into his gut knocking him backwards just enough. A quick glance of the refrigerator told her just enough of what would be useful. Three eggs sat on the middle shelf, uncontained. Just waiting to be used. She snatched up all three, sprung up, and fired the eggs straight into his face. They crack on contact. The man stumbled further back and screeched incoherently.

There was yolk and whites over his entire face. He couldn't see. She closed the refrigerator door, whistled a few short notes, and spun a quick roundhouse kick to his face. He dropped.

She glanced at her hands. No blood this time and barely any sweat. Her companion already had the other two men bound and slumped against one of the walls (his tenant still cowered in the corner). He grinned at her. "What took you so long?"

She rolled her eyes.

"The police have been called," he continued. "Breakfast is ready, although I suggest you stay upstairs while the police are here. I'm sure I'll be back in time to bring you your tea."

Ah, right. The SHIELD lawyers still hadn't cleaned up a minor issue of her being wanted because of her last domestic mission. It had been a stupid mistake, really, it wasn't even her fault! She shrugged to herself. With a soft sigh, she started for the door. As she past him, he caught her arm and held her back to drop a quick kiss on her lips. "You," he whispered, "are stunning."

She smiled for him and continued her way upstairs. In their own apartment, away from the fuss and the job, their breakfast was happily bubbling away. She turned off the burners, served herself a plate, and enjoyed the food (the eggs, in particular, were brilliant).


End file.
